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Elena’s just settled under his arm when Nate’s phone starts vibrating. He wiggles it out of his pocket to answer.
“Hey, Nathan.”
“Sam, where are you?”
“I got a little sidetracked on my way.”
“You mean, you completely forgot we invited you.”
“Maybe. Hey, tell Elena ‘sorry’ for me. And I’ll be there next year.”
Nate shakes his head, “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“I’ll be there,” Sam adds more emphasis to it. “Merry Christmas, Nathan.”
“Merry Christmas, Sam.”
Nate puts the phone down and Elena repositions herself against him, drawing his arm more tightly around her like a blanket. She hazards a guess, “He’s not coming then.”
“My brother, a no show on Christmas Eve. What gave you that idea?”
“Did you remind him my parents won’t be here?”
Nate laughs, but he’s not sure how much that would’ve helped. It’s not as though they’ve ever treated Christmas as the holiest of days; Nate’s decently sure neither of them has been to mass since they left the orphanage. Christmas was for happy families, not them.
“I’m waiting until the last minute to tell him they’ll be here for the baby’s first Christmas.”
Now it’s Elena’s turn to laugh, “I was gonna wait to tell them about Sam too.”
Compared to Sam, Nate now looks like the ideal son-in-law to Patricia and Jim. They knew it was bound to be a rough introduction, they just didn’t anticipate how rough.
Even on his best behavior, Sam couldn’t impress them. Nate’s not sure if it was the prison stint, the smoking, the tattoos, or a winning combination of all three that made Nate skyrocket in their opinion. It’s just about the only thing he was thankful for last Thanksgiving.
Much as Nate may love Sam, he learned a long time ago to accept he can’t change anyone else’s opinion of his brother.
The best he can hope for from Elena’s parents is the occasional tolerance of Sam’s presence, though he may not have to worry about it at all if Sam flakes out on them again.
“One-to-ten, how high is Sam on your parents’ worst nightmare scale?”
Elena considers, “Dad was at like a seven. A ten for mom.”
“Patricia would not put him on the same level as clowns.”
“Are you kidding? With those tattoos, she probably thought he was a carney. And everyone knows carneys are worse than clowns.”
“Probably true,” Nate chuckles and kisses the top of Elena’s head. Hugging her closer, “Have I thanked you recently for convincing your parents to let us keep Christmas for ourselves.”
“All I had to do was tell them you’re a massive Scrooge.”
It’s a fair assessment, Nate will concede. He doesn’t have cherished childhood memories of the holiday season. Most of his adult life has been spent avoiding it altogether; the few times he managed to be in the country were dismal.
But with Elena, things are different. He’s happy to be here with her. He’ll happily share the holidays with the baby when they arrive.
His mind wanders to a few weeks from now when they’ll be able to find out the sex.
Elena cranes her neck to look at him, “Hey, where are you?”
“Next year.”
----------
The lighter glows in Sam’s cupped hands.
He probably should’ve been straight with Nathan from the start, telling him he wasn’t coming for Christmas, but he’s found it’s easier to bow out last second than decline the initial invitation. It’s almost expected of him. And a relief to others.
Besides, Nathan and Elena will thank him later for not disturbing their final Christmas before the baby.
Sam puffs on his cigarette and stuffs his hands in his pockets, trying to ignore the cold. Of all the goddamn layovers in all the goddamn places on all the goddamn nights of the year, his had to leave him in Boston on Christmas Eve.
But worse than wandering the streets after dark would’ve been spending it at Logan with the poor, lonely saps still trying to make it to be with their families before Christmas. If Sam wanted to be with his family, he would’ve gotten on the flight to New Orleans.
No. Instead the universe decided to play a sick joke and leave him stranded here.
As if on cue, gentle flurries begin to fall on the silent streets. Sam shivers more from the eerie stillness than the additional chill.
The light goes out on his cigarette.
“Shit,” he mutters, desperately digging through his pockets for another.
Unsuccessful, he looks for a dive where he can get a drink and maybe bum a smoke off some miserable sod at the bar. He tries not to think about the fact he is that poor, miserable, lonely sod himself.
Of course, not a damn place is open. Not even the damn cheese shop. Jesus, what sort of neighborhood needs a cheese shop? Didn’t this used to be the rougher part of town?
Finding nothing, Sam is drawn up the steps of the Cathedral of the Holy Cross by the soft singing of the choir. He lingers in the far back, leaning against a pillar to watch the service.
And as the Christmas story is told, a sudden wave of memories overcomes Sam: Mom dragging him and Nathan to midnight mass, sitting between them to keep them in line, resting his head on her shoulder when he finally was too tired to hold it up any longer.
Sam sniffs too loudly and wipes his nose on this sleeve.
The family just in front of him turn to stare at him disapprovingly for disturbing their prayer. In challenge, Sam glares back at each of them in turn, locking eyes with the man at the far end of the pew.
“Fucking Christ,” Sam breathes.
Anger flares up in chest, the likes of which he hasn’t felt since the day he and Nathan were abandoned at St. Francis.
If they were anywhere else but church, Sam knows exactly what he would do. His fist would collide with Thomas Morgan’s nose for abandoning them, for selling mom’s journals – for resenting his wife and sons. Then Sam would beat the crap out of him for shits and grins.
But the white-hot rage Sam feels is not reflected in Thomas Morgan’s face. There isn’t even the faintest glimmer of recognition; Sam might as well be a complete stranger to his father.
Long after Thomas Morgan turns back around, Sam’s eyes bore into the back of his head. It really is some sort of sick joke that he’s here.
Sam’s hands start to shake. He really needs a cigarette. Or a drink. Or both.
He ducks out through a side exit he spotted someone else use; he can’t be the only one desperate for a smoke. He braces himself for the cold.
Sure enough, a hooded figure struggles to get a flame going.
“Need a light?” Sam offers, hoping it will earn him a cigarette in return. Sam flinches away automatically when the figure faces him, “Sister Catherine?”
“Shit. Don’t tell Father Duffy.”
“I won’t, if you don’t.”
She’s not amused.
Sam raises his hands to prove his fingers aren’t crossed, “On my life. So long as you’ve got another one of those.”
She finally exhales and passes him a cigarette. Sam lights hers then his and the pair of them smoke in silence.
It’s beyond surreal: being back here, seeing his father, sharing a smoke with the first person he lifted a cigarette from. It’s almost too much not to laugh at the cruel irony of it all.
Sister Catherine squints at him as he does, “Do I know you?”
“Sam Drake,” he responds, not even thinking.
She shakes her head, “No. Never mind. You reminded me a boy who was at St. Francis – years ago. He was a handful – he and his brother. His name was Sam too.”
“Yeah. That’s me. Sort of changed our name when I unofficially took Nathan into my custody.”
She blinks, processing, “I always wondered what became of the pair of you. There were reports of a break in involving two boys the day he disappeared…”
Sam coughs, “Yeah. That was us. Had to take care of some family business.”
Honestly, Sam can’t believe he’s telling her the truth. Maybe he’s long past due for confession or maybe he’s just glad somebody recognizes him from those days.
She gives him a stern look, “We should’ve known you would lead your brother into trouble.”
“Oh, come on. Nathan was as good at getting into trouble on his own as I was. You can’t put that all on me.”
“He was following your example.”
There it is: the guilt. The blessed Catholic guilt. If it weren’t for him, Nathan might’ve had a real chance at a normal life. Education, family, career.
Sam shakes his head. What am I thinking? Nathan has all those things and he didn’t need to take the conventional road to get them.
“If it makes you feel any better, Sister, he’s not following my footsteps anymore. He’s married with a baby on the way.”
This seems to appease her, finally taking another drag of her cigarette. She blows the smoke into the black night sky. “And what of you, Sam Drake? Any hope of settling down and fulfilling God’s purpose?”
Sam scoffs. That path has long since been closed off to him. “Your proselytizing is wasted on me. I’m a lost cause.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. Look how far you’ve come. You practically raised Nathan –”
“Not well.”
“You’ve taken care of yourself –”
“Thirteen years in prison is not what I would call self-care.” He’s testing her patience, he can tell by the thin line of her lips, but he can’t stop himself, “I’ve lied. I’ve cheated. I’ve murdered. Which of God’s commandments haven’t I broken?”
Sister Catherine puts out her cigarette, exhaling, “Do you think you’re the only one to stray from God’s path?”
“I swear, if the next words out of your mouth are ‘join the cloth,’ I’m walking away.”
“No know who has ever known you would dare make that suggestion.” Reciting, “‘And the son said unto him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son.’”
“Luke 15, The Prodigal Son.”
“You recall your lessons well. And how did the father reply to his other son?”
“‘It is right we should be glad: for you brother was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.’” Sam puffs on the last of his cigarette.
Sister Catherine places a hand on his shoulder, “You see, no matter what you have done, there is forgiveness.”
“And if I can’t forgive myself?”
“Then you will have to learn to accept the forgiveness of others.”
She extracts the box of cigarettes and presses it into Sam’s hand.
Sam stares at it, blankly, “You don’t have –”
“It’s a gift.”
His fingers wrap around the half empty box, “Thanks.”
Sister Catherine nods, “Welcome home, Samuel.”
With a final squeeze of his shoulder, Sister Catherine returns inside. Sam stays in the yard and light another cigarette, snow falling around him and the dull sounds of mass echoing into the night.
He can’t explain why he lingers or why he watches the procession of clergy and congregation file out of the church as the organ fills the air with the exuberant strains of ‘Joy to the World’, but he does.
Through the crowd Sam spots Thomas Morgan, no longer perturbed by Sam’s presence, already forgotten. When he turns on his heel to go home, he is alone, and the urge to confront him dies with Sam’s cigarette, crumbling into dust.
Somewhere deep in the back of his mind, Sam assumed Thomas Morgan had moved on and started over with a new family. Maybe he did and maybe he fucked that one up too, leaving him all on his own at Christmas with nowhere to go.
And for a moment, Sam pities the asshole. He had everything; home, family, love. And then he threw it all away, for what?
The moment fades, and Sam snaps out of it, “What the fuck am I doing?”
Making his way back down the street, Sam lights another cigarette.
----------
Head on Elena’s head, Nate starts to cry.
She squeezes him tighter, “We don’t have to watch this.”
But Nate shakes his head. It’s rare he agrees to watch It’s a Wonderful Life and rarer still that he suggests it; this was his suggestion. He takes a steadying breath and finds Elena’s hand.
She was surprised how strongly the story affected him the first time they watched the movie together. Not noticing the tears running down his face until she turned to wonder why he wasn’t agreeing with her about Mary’s fate. She lets him be during the movie now, but never lets him watch it alone.
Each viewing hits him differently, but harder each time. But it clears his head and heart of doubt and regret. And he can’t go into this coming year with either; he needs to be here for Elena and the baby. He’s determined to be here for them completely.
A small part of Nate is relieved Sam isn’t here to witness this. Either he would laugh at how deeply Nate is moved by George Bailey’s tale, or the pair of them would sob into each other’s shoulders. Nate’s not sure how well he would handle either reaction.
George runs into Mary’s arms and Nate can only think of all the close calls he’s put Elena through.
“The richest man in town!” Harry declares as all of New Bedford pours out their hearts and their wallets for George Bailey.
Nate feels like the richest man in the world with just Elena, Sully, Sam, and the baby. The baby is coming, but he wishes the other two were here now, even if they would mock him for crying over this movie.
The doorbell rings just as Clarence receives his wings. Nate and Elena stare in the direction of the door then look to each other.
“Were you expecting someone?”
“No. I didn’t invite anyone.”
“Well, neither did I.”
The doorbell rings again.
“I’ll get it,” Elena offers, granting Nate a moment to collect himself.
It impatiently rings twice more before Elena reaches the door.
Nate’s still attempting to dry his eyes when she calls back, “You’ll never guess who’s here.”
“Sorry, I’m late,” Sam apologizes.
“Hope you don’t mind leftovers. Let me just heat something up for you.”
“Sounds good.” Sam lets himself through to the living room and stops in his tracks, “You been crying, Nathan?”
“Just a little,” he sniffs.
“Try sobbing,” Elena returns with a steaming bowl of leftovers from the microwave for Sam.
“Jesus. I didn’t realize my absence would upset you so much.”
“You’re such an asshole,” Nate declares, even as he gets up to embrace his brother.
Sam squeezes back, “Takes one to know one.”
They all settle back down so Sam can eat. Nate can’t believe Sam would pull this shit on him – again. Well, he can, but he doesn’t understand what made Sam change his mind.
Between bites, “So why was Nathan really crying?”
“Oh, the usual. Dust in my eye. Cutting onions.”
“Alright. Fine. Don’t tell me.”
“What about you? You just showed up here after deciding you weren’t going to come with no explanation.”
Elena backs him up, “It was pretty bold of you to assume the offer still stood.”
“Like the pair of you were about to make other plans,” Sam points his fork threateningly at them.
“I don’t know,” Nate leans back in his seat. “I hear the Aurora Borealis are stunning this time of year. Elena and I were thinking of going.”
“But you didn’t.”
“But we could have.”
“Tell you what, Nathan: if you tell me what made you cry, then I’ll tell you why I’m here.”
Nate jaw automatically clenches; he hasn’t told Sam that he’s in therapy or on anti-depressants. Though Nate barely remembers mom’s descent into depression, he didn’t want to worry Sam.
Revealing It’s a Wonderful Life goes straight to his heart feels a little too close to admitting the truth of the matter. Nate’s not even sure Sam’s seen the movie, but he still doesn’t want to take that risk.
Sensing his distress, Elena reaches for his hand, “No better time.”
Nate squeezes back for strength. “Sam, I’m in therapy. For depression.”
The amusement in Sam’s eyes fades away and his brow furrows. “Like mom?”
Nodding, “Yeah.”
“Shit. Are you okay – is he okay?” he redirects his question to Elena.
“Yeah. He’s gonna be fine. I’m not letting him go anywhere.”
“Thank God for you, Elena.”
Nate could roll his eyes at Sam; he wasn’t saying that when his ‘life was on the line’. But he’s not wrong, Elena has been nothing but supportive and encouraging through it all.
There will be days – years, even, to discuss it. But now he wants Sam’s explanation, “Cards on the table. What made you change your mind about spending Christmas with us?”
It’s Sam’s turn to shift uncomfortably in his seat. “I – uh – ran into some old acquaintances of ours. Made me realize where I really wanted to be for the holidays.”
“Who?”
“You remember Sister Catherine?”
“No shit.”
“She shared her cigarettes then wielded Catholic guilt like a ruler and sent me packing.”
Nate chuckles, but something doesn’t sit right about Sam’s story. Where did he run into Sister Catherine? What was he up to? What’s he holding back?
He looks to Elena to see if she’s picked up on it too, but she’s already busying herself collecting the dishes. “I’m going to grab us all some eggnog.”
Sam meets Nate’s eye when she’s left the room, “I’m glad you told me. I’m not looking to lose my little brother any time soon.”
“You won’t. You think I’d leave Elena saddled with both the baby and you?”
As Sam laughs, Nate realizes he doesn’t care what other kick in the ass brought Sam here; every time he looks at his brother, it’s still a damn miracle he’s alive. If it was important, Sam would tell him.
Elena returns, “Drink up, boys. It’s the old Fisher family recipe: mostly bourbon and rum, and a little bit of nog.”
“She’s not –”
“Just nog for me.” Raising her glass, “Glad you could make it, Sam”
“Imagine waking up to find me under the tree,” Sam winks.
This time, Nate can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes, but makes a toast anyway, “Merry Christmas.”
Their glasses clink in the air.